It was uncanny. I felt suddenly acutely aware of my surroundings, as though everything was portentous of some event looming.

My hair whipped about my face as, breathless, I arrived back on my doorstep, turning the key in the lock. Even the short walk up the lane had felt like a marathon and the heavy sensation in my abdomen had returned.

I made a mug of coffee and eased myself into the armchair, switching on the television. The morning programmes seemed to be filled with glamorous, reed-thin women having beauty treatments and modelling the season’s latest trends. My thoughts turned to Reggie and a lump rose in my throat. Plus, in my current barrage-balloon-like state, it did nothing for my self-confidence. I sighed and turned off. Hearing the washing machine bleep, I went to empty it.

Excited by the gusting leaves, Jobie raced up and down the garden like a mad thing. I struggled to prevent the wind from claiming the laundry I was attempting to peg out. Stretching to retrieve a wayward sock from the privet hedge, a searing pain gripped my stomach. A sudden, unexpected gush of warm water soaked through my jeans.

Seized by panic, I cried out. Within seconds Mrs Barley had appeared in her garden. Taking one look at me, she knew immediately what had happened.

‘I’m coming, love; I’ll telephone for an ambulance.’

She was marvellous: the epitome of calm and practicality. Helping me into my living room, she spread towels beneath me, mopping up the alarming amount of fluid that continued to seep out. She found me a change of clothes, then made chamomile tea, rubbing my back and talking in a quiet, reassuring voice; telling me how to breathe. For someone who had never had children, she seemed to know exactly what to do; what I needed.

The pain in my stomach had now extended to my back and it felt as though it were about to break. I moved this way and that, but there was no respite. I had been led to believe that pain ceased between contractions; this appeared to have been a myth. It was unbearable. I was starting to feel nauseous and faint. I felt an excruciating pain in my pelvis. The increasing pressure led to a sudden irresistible urge to push. It was all frighteningly quick, not the twenty-four hours or so of labour I had been anticipating.

‘Mrs Barley, I think the baby is coming!’

‘Shush, now. Don’t give in to it just yet. Take short breaths, try to pant when you want to push.’ Her voice was soothing, measured. I was trying my hardest to resist but it was becoming almost impossible. I really feared my pelvis might be in danger of being ripped apart. The old woman began to mumble softly, her voice almost a monotone. I had no idea what she was saying and was in so much pain I was beyond caring.